Let It Fall
by theeShadyLady
Summary: "Let Them Fall," we shouted as we ran. Ran into battle. A battle that would decide our fate. ((Written for Sara Raasch's Summer Blizzard.))


"Let It Fall," we shout as we run. Run into battle. A battle that will decide our fate.

This is it. _Soldier or weapons-master? Warrior or metalsmith?_ The question all of us have been asked since birth.

My parents were soldiers, but so far my three older brothers and my sister have been declared metalsmiths.

My siblings may be fine with that fate, but I'm not. There is no shame in either job, but I don't care about that. I will be a warrior. I will fight for Autumn.

I stop short of the oncoming enemy, gripping the disks of metal in my hand. The "soldiers" we fight may not be human, but they are programmed to kill and armed with every fighting tactic Primoria has ever seen.

I'm a range fighter and everyone knows it, so today I must prove I am more than that. Sliding the disks back into their holster, I yank out my sword. It's heavy and it slows me down. Light and fast. That's how I fight. That's how I survive. But not today.

Charging forward I swing my blade into my first opponent. It goes down without a struggle, but the soldier behind it sees my technique and adapts. It pulls out it's own sword and charges. I block it, but not fast enough. My shoulder burns with a fresh wound which angers me instead of slowing me down. I jump raising my arms above my head and bring the hilt of my sword crashing down on the soldiers head. It is hardly affected. I fake a swing with my blade while throwing kick at its knee. It falters dropping down at the sudden change of direction. I drop my sword below it and thrust it straight up from the soldier's chest to it's neck. Victory.

But there is no time to celebrate, the next two soldiers are on me in a breath. I get a running start before they are too close, then drop to my knees raising my sword above. Both soldiers are down, the first one has lost a leg. I jam my sword behind me into the back of the closest one, then spin slicing the head off the other. They fall, defeated.

Seeing I am without opponent three more soldiers turn and head for me. Instead of approaching I pull out my disks. Holding them in my hand as I quickly calculate the soldiers' distance I trace my finger along several of the one-hundred eighty teeth. Flicking my wrist in a smooth, sudden movement I let the first fly. Then the second and the third. Each disk hits a soldier. I repeat this several times until the first soldier falls. Then the second and the third.

I finally take a second to look around. There are only about thirteen of us standing, I thought I'd have more time. I only took out seven soldiers, everyone else must have took out nearly fifteen. _Weaponsmaster._ The word smacks into my brain.

I turn to face the approaching judges, they had been watching from a nearby hilltop behind the enemy. The thirteen of us gather into a line, heads bowed.

"Congratulations," says the first judge (we never learned their names). "You have completed your training. Please head back to your tents, your results will be delivered shortly."

We thank them and they leave.

"You survived!" jokes Rahim.

"Barely." I smirk back.

"How many?"

"Seven," I mumble.

"Oh."

"You?

"Nine...teen."

I squeeze my eyes shut. _Of course he got nineteen; he's the best of our age._

He bumps my shoulder trying to play, but I don't respond. Instead I think back to our weapons training. _Why did I have to be so good? I should have faked it._ But that wouldn't have worked, everyone knows that if you are bad at weaponry the judges assign you a coach who will make you work morning and night until you are as good as everyone your age.

When we get back to our camp, I throw myself onto the ground and pull out my disks. I have around two hundred of the parchment-thin disks, each handmade by myself, as all of out weapons are. What makes my weapon unique as I designed them myself; part charm, part tossing-star, part playing card. I chuck several of them one by one at a nearby tree, only one hitting its mark. The others come circling back at means I catch them in my guard hand. The little piece of what looks like leather, but is as strong as steel, has a loop that goes around my wrist, one that goes around my thumb, and one around my ring finger; its pretty much the only material that my little diamond-edged disks can't cut through.

Rahim walks in and the disk passes inches in front of him, instead of stopping he lifts his palm up and slaps the disk straight up into the air and catches it between two fingers, avoiding the blades all together. I make a mental note to change that. We have to test all the weapons we create against each other and so far no one but him has been able to stop it. One guy even got two of his fingers sliced off trying to catch it. He didn't make it in the last battle.

"We aren't supposed to let guys in our tent," I remind him sarcastically.

"Any objections?" he asks motioning to the three other girls in the room. They ignore him and continue debating on which of them will be soldiers. Odds are all of them are, most of the weaponsmakers were selected before the final battle.

Rahim sits down next to me and takes a group of disks from my holster. He flicks his wrist and throws one out the door, it's back with in moments. He tosses several more catching each between his fingertips.

"You've been practicing."

"How could I?" He looks at me innocently, "You're the only one who has these. and I would _never_ take any without your permission."

"You wouldn't?" I grab his arm and crawl over him, reaching into his back pocket. "Ah, what is this?"

His eyes grow wide, "I dunno."

"Yeah," I smile sitting back down.

"All right, children! Look alive! On your feet!"

I shove Rahim out the back of our tent and we rush to get in line with the others.

There is only one judge now, I recognize her as the general of Autumn's archery squadron.

"Ashir," she calls our names one by one, "soldier."

I hold my breath as she calls each name and when it's finally my turn, I close my eyes. "Soldier," I'm not even sure I hear her right. I try to keep a straight face. Out of the corner of my eye I see Rahim flash a smile.

"Rahim, metalsmith."

 **~theeShadyLady~**

 _ **A/N : "Rahim" **(pronounced "raw-heem") **means "to be kind/to show mercy" in Persian. :)**_


End file.
